


Sweet Kiss (For Anyone But You)

by dirkygoodness



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drunkenness, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier is loney and gets drunk, M/M, Minor depictions of wounds, One-Sided Attraction, Sorry Not Sorry, This Is Sad, Unrequited Love, dead animal, he talks about what he wants and what he cant have to no one in particular, i might make a sequel at some point later but this is intended to be stand alone sad shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirkygoodness/pseuds/dirkygoodness
Summary: Jaskier is sad.Jaskier is drunk.Jaskier aches.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 154





	Sweet Kiss (For Anyone But You)

**Author's Note:**

> 'twas in a mood

Jaskier strums his lute with a little too much force, dragging a straining whine out of it as his fingers twinge from the impact. 

“You know,” He says to no one in particular, but he favors the idea that he’s talking to the rabbit that’s either sleeping or dead a few feet away from him under the base of a tree. “I was actually having a little trouble writing my song.” 

The rabbit doesn’t answer him, so Jaskier just continues.

“I know, it’s very uncharacteristic of me! I’ve been so prol - prew - gods, I can’t remember how to say that word.” Jaskier’s face pinches, his mouth drawing up into a frown as he dances his fingers lightly against the strings on his lute. His other fingers, hand at the very top of the lute’s neck, begin to tap out an unspecific rhythm. 

He sits there for a moment, pondering how to say the word he was reaching for. He knows it’s somewhere in his head, but Jaskier can’t seem to drag it to his mouth to make the sounds. Perhaps it has something to do with the copious amounts of alcohol he’s ingested. His leg starts shaking, bouncing up and down, but it’s unsure if Jaskier had intended to do so or if it happened on reflex. 

“Proofic.” He tries, shaking his head. “Polesific. Specific? No, that doesn’t even start with a ‘p’.”

A cool breeze blows through Jaskier’s pitiful, haphazardly put together campsite, knocking over the bottle of wine he’d forgotten about an hour ago. Something about it falling seems to spark his memory, though, and he snaps his fingers with a loud _‘ah-ha!’_ that echoes through the otherwise silent woods; bird wings beat loudly, having been startled from their sleeping perches for the night. 

“Prolific, that's the one!” He smiles, triumphant, but it’s not a thing that can last. Not with the ache that's set about somewhere in his chest, has been there for days now. He searches the campsite with his eyes, trying to figure out where his new rabbit friend was laying. 

“Anyway, I was very prolific up until recently,” Jaskier continues from where he’d left off as soon as he spots the unmoving form of the rabbit. “I mean, I _had_ had quite a bit of inspiration, you know! Monsters around every corner.” His voice lows and dips into a warning, and Jaskier’s eyes dance around the trees surrounding his little clearing like he was expecting one such monster to pop out and attack. All he got, though, was the faint buzz of crickets and the occasional leaf blowing in the wind. 

“But, uh,” He frowns, “I was having a little trouble with some wording. Wasn’t sure if I should go with lovely or gorgeous. Both worked well, it was just a matter of, er… pedantics? I think is the word? I was just being picky. Wanted to impress.”

A laugh bubbles up out of Jaskier’s mouth but there’s no humor in it, strained against the emotion that’s just beginning to eb into his words. Once again Jaskier slips into a silence, thick with intent. He tries a few times, during it, to start back up with his one sided conversation but Jaskier never quite manages it. Cuts himself off before he can even make a sound, his mouth snapping shut every time. His eyes drop to his boots and he takes a long, shaking breath.

It seems to give grant him speech again, but the next words out of his mouth tremble on unshed tears as the line of his shoulders raise, Jaskier curling in on himself protectively.

“He never liked my songs.” Jaskier says, pushing his weight into his lute so the body of it digs hard into his thighs until it hurts. He doesn’t move to help himself, though. 

“I always told myself he does, that he was just. Bad at-” Jaskier gestures absently with the hand still on the lute’s neck. “-All of it. But it was okay, you know? ‘Cause I - I had that with him. I’d made all those wonderful songs for him, and he let me go with him.”

Jaskier laughs, dark and angry. “I think I was his only friend. I liked that. Finally I had something-” His breath hitches as tears, now, being to slip down his face. “I _finally_ had someone who was mine. Mine alone.”

Jaskier looks back up, his eyes landing on the now dead fire he’d tried to start. He glares at it and hisses through his teeth, fingers gripping the strings on his fretboard until they dig into his skin, tinting his fingertips red. 

“Then _she_ showed up. Fuckin’ - went and had to _ruin_ everything.” Jaskier spits, his fingers tightening on the lute strings. He can feel blood dripping down his hand but still he doesn’t let go. “I’d finally gotten to a point where I - I mean it felt like he was starting to care, just the littlest bit. But her being there was like, like it was poisoning him on me. Every time she showed up he just - he just got _distant_ until-”

Jaskier growls and jerks his hand. 

“She _took him from me.”_

The strings on his lute snap with a painful pop, and Jasker startles badly. He falls backwards onto his back, off the stump he’d been perched on top of. He curses and shoves his lute off of him with too much force, gritting his teeth. Even _it_ was betraying him. Jaskier raises his still-bleeding fingers to his mouth and sucks on them, his eyes twisting up against the fire like pain. 

He stays there for… he doesn’t really know, but it’s a long time. So long in fact that his fingers have stopped bleeding, though they still hurt. Like someone had chopped his fingertips off rather than having managed to slice them against his lute strings. Jaskier tips his head, glancing at the instrument in question out of the corner of his eye. Part of him is still bitter, and angry. About a whole lot of things, and he shouldn’t take that out on the one thing that still managed to give him an outlet. The way he made his money. If for no other reason then that, he would have to treat it kindly. 

So Jaskier rolls over and stands, tucking his unhurt hand under his armpit as he walks a little ways away so he doesn’t pick the damn thing up and smash it against the tree. He makes it about five steps before he pulls to a halt, pulling his fingers out of his mouth with an audible pop to get a glimpse at the damage. In the darkness of night without his campfire, Jaskier can only make out so much. But it’s enough. The wounds are deep - deeper than is safe to just leave them be and go to sleep. It sobers him a little bit, seeing the damage, and he curses again. Whirls around as he tries to figure out where, in his drunken, lonely state earlier he’d flung it. 

When he spots it - far too close to the campfire, he’s amazed it hadn’t caught - Jaskier trudges over, just the littlest bit pouting. It wasn’t the case, but Jaskier felt as if there were eyes watching, judging him from just inside the woods where he couldn’t see. Again, he regrets not tending to the fire closer, being unable to see far enough to make sure he isn’t anything more than just paranoid. He’d never had particularly good night vision, especially when drunk, and managed to get himself into multiple… _situations_ that way. If Geralt were here he could -

Jaskier stops in his tracks, eyes blowing wide as he stares unseeing at the pack now at his feet. 

He shouldn’t think about that. About _him._ Geralt wasn’t here, and thinking about him just made Jaskier’s stomach hurt, and brought him nothing but pain. The only thing he’d been able to write had been that pain filled mess about - anyway. He needs to stop.

But.

Geralt _isn’t_ here. 

And isn’t that just sad?

Jaskier falls to his knees with a sob, pressing the pad of his wounded hand into his right eye in a feeble attempt at stopping himself from crying. With his other, shaking, Jaskier digs into his pack and drags out a small bundle of bandages. He’d started carrying them around after he’d met Geralt, actually. They didn’t always see each other, but more often than not Jaskier found himself stumbling upon Geralt a manner of different stages of job. Sometimes at the start where he learned what Geralt did with him - albeit, a little slower. Others, when Geralt had just finished whatever it was he was doing and was similarly covered in battle wounds. Jaskier hadn’t been able to stand it, seeing Geralt just brush them off like they were… like they were _nothing._ Even though Jaskier had seen his bone on multiple occasions. 

So, he’s started carrying around the bandages. 

He was almost out now, and he’d have to get more. 

That thought jolts him out of remembrance, and he reminds himself as he begins to wrap the first finger with a pained hiss, that he _doesn’t_ need to. Because Geralt doesn’t want him around, he _isn’t_ coming back, and Jaskier is sure if they bumped into each other on the road he’d turn Roach around and leave on sight. 

Jaskier finishes bandaging his wounds and, careful not to let the new wrapping touch the dirt, crawls himself to where he’d left his bedroll. 

He cries himself to sleep, and in the morning he wakes to the sound of a bird calling incessantly. 

The headache is a reminder of how much he’d drunk in the night, and his hand is a reminder to how stupid he’d been. It takes him hardly any time at all to break camp, despite being hung over and exhausted - he must have only slept a few hours, the sun barely over the hills in the distance that he can spot through the trees. 

He no longer feels eyes on him, and with a quick glance around Jaskier knows he’s truly alone now. 

His fingers throb as he buries the rabbit under the tree.

Jaskier heads for the nearest town, hoping the coin jingling in his pocket will be enough to buy him new lute strings. 


End file.
